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The flowers were so beautiful, so delicate and unthreatening, but they choked everything around them.

Scott Westerfeld

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Scott Westerfeld
Age: 61
Born: 1963
Born: May 5
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Dallas
Texas
Scott David Westerfeld
Beautiful
Around
Everything
Choked
Delicate
Flowers
Flower

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Irony is always the best weapon against fascism.
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Maybe she still was a pretty-head, making up irrational stories about the empty forest. The longer she stayed alone out here, the more Tally understood why the Rusties and their predecessors had believed in invisible beings, praying to placate spirits as they trashed the natural world around them.
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Tally turned away. Five minutes was suddenly too long to stand here, eyes burning, unable to cry.
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But you know what? It's not my behavior I'm worried about anymore. It's yours.
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It's just the way things are. she shrugged. It's no one's fault. Or everyone's.
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What did a happy ending even mean in real life, anyway? In stories you simply said, 'They lived happily ever after,' and that was it. But in real life people had to keep on living, day after day, year after year.
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What you do, the way you think, makes you beautiful.
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Dude, I just watched you climb up a f*cking building!-Lace
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It's amazing how quickly nature consumes human places after we turn our backs on them. Life is a hungry thing.
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So what are those balloons for? In case you fall off your hoverboard?' -- Tally to Peris
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You can't blame a match for a house made of straw, Alek.
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Everyone in the world was programmed by the place they were born, hemmed in by their beliefs, but you had to at least try to grow your own brain.
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People only worry about the uncanny for about a week that's the end of their attention span. After that, suspicions turn into shtick.
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I expect that you must receive top marks at school, young lady. Madeleine smiled as she stirred her tea. There are always rewards for those who state the obvious frequently and with conviction.
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I kissed him once, she whispered. Well done. What did he do? Um... Deryn sighed. He woke up.
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I used to be a pre-industrial writer: thousands of words in a spurt and then a few days off. But as I get older, I've switched to a mode best described as 'slow and steady wins the race.' Basically, I write during the same four hours every day, after breakfast and the all-important coffee, generally in the same room and wearing the same pajamas.
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We needed to become world-famous soon, while there was still that kind of world to be famous in.
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